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LEKEU

LEKEU (i)

This is a day for dying. Dead winter. Bitter wind. Rain lying on rooftops A little early sun But grey through the afternoon Until evening. Monsieur Lekeu, sitting By his son’s bed, watching Life sink away, watching That precious childhood And youth unravel itself Imperceptibly - yesterday Twenty-four, tomorrow Nothing - knowing Death through his son’s Frail hand, knowing It was a day for dying.

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(ii)

dying at twenty-four was he is he no more than a memory of unfulfilled spring fruit unripening hoar-frost blighted or with us in piano and violin about to begin the masterpiece always a possibility in his eternal spring

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